Today I had a dream.

  And like most of my dreams, I forgot about it a few hours after waking up. Poof. Gone. Typical. But something about this one lingered — like a weird aftertaste or an unshakable déjà vu. So I did what I rarely do: I wrote it down. Or at least, the reasonable parts. Because let’s be honest, dreams are nonsense half the time. This one involved mythological beings… auditioning. To be in a musical.

  Yeah.

  A musical.

  Written by me, apparently.

  Anyway, in the dream, there was some kind of cosmic roulette and I got assigned Zeus — the king of gods, master of lightning, serial philanderer and overall golden-certified scumbag. And I, still dream-me, accidentally wrote a script that painted Zeus not in his usual shiny, thunder-wielding glory… but as weak. Vulnerable. Emotionally pathetic even. When they called me out on it, I panicked and lied (dream logic, remember?) — claiming it was intentional, that it was from the perspective of a woman Zeus is wooing, exploring why women still fell for him despite him being… well, Zeus.

  And weirdly, when I woke up — that idea stuck. Like glitter in a carpet. Annoying and impossible to ignore.

  Which brings me to the problem:

  How the hell do I write a romance about a mythological scumbag?

  That’s the question I’m now determined to answer. This book isn't just about Zeus. It’s about me, trying to write a book about Zeus. About what it means to romanticize flawed figures, to wrangle my ADHD-riddled mind into a coherent storyline, and to maybe—just maybe—understand a little more about the chaos of writing, desire, and divinity.

  This won’t be clean. It won’t always be pretty. But it will be honest.

  And it will have lightning.

  Lots of it.